


Intransient

by GenericUsername01



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Coming Out, Drug Use, Fluff, Homelessness, Sherlock being a Hell Child, Trans Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-02 03:36:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17256884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GenericUsername01/pseuds/GenericUsername01
Summary: And so William Sherlock Scott Holmes he becomes.





	1. B is for Brother

Imogene Winnifred Holmes had always been a sour little girl who hated everything.

She hated social ‘rules’ and being polite and pretty much all interactions with other human beings aside from her immediate family. Children were stupid and annoying, adults were equally stupid in a different way and so dull it was almost worse. People wanted to pinch her cheeks and ask about school and have her act as little more than a pretty doll with programmed, robotic responses.

She played along until she was about nine. Then she decided that society as a whole was unforgivably foolish and thus she could not be expected to abide by its constructs.

“Imogene,” Mycroft said. “You cannot keep digging up specimens from the estate grounds.”

“Why not?” she asked petulantly.

“Because the clothes you are wearing are designer and professionally tailored. Not only have you gotten them covered in stains, but you have also torn them in several places. Your blouse is completely ruined, the skirt is likely barely salvageable but I estimate it will be pitched anyway.”

“So what?”

“It’s a waste of money, Imogene,” he said. “If you want specimens, have the groundskeeper collect them for you. You know how he complains about you ruining his hard work. I’m sure he would be thrilled to find appropriate locations from which to dig up worms.”

“But Mycroft,” she whined. “He won’t give me the _right_ worms. He would just give me whichever ones he came upon first, and wouldn’t even bother to look for truly interesting ones.”

He looked at her contemplatively. “How about this?” he said. “How about instead of ruining your nice new clothes mucking about, you wear some of my old ones when experimenting?”

“We still have those?”

“They’re packed away in the attic. Sentiment, I suppose. They may as well go to use.”

Imogene smiled broadly.

* * *

 

It became an issue about three months later.

“Imogene!” Mummy said. “You absolutely cannot wear that.”

“Why not?” she asked, chin tilted up defiantly.

“It is one thing to wear your brother’s clothes when running about through mud and climbing trees, but it is quite another to wear them every day for the sake of it.”

“Why?”

She raised her eyes to the ceiling briefly. “It’s not proper, Imogene. I realize you… admire your brother, but you must wear your own clothes.”

“You think he’s trying to turn me into a small, female version of himself,” she said. “And you think I’m allowing it out of naivety and hero worship. In reality I simply cannot tolerate the flounces and fanciness and good behavior that my own clothing seems to force. I will continue to run my experiments and behave as I please no matter what. I refuse to wear skirts or girly blouses while doing it. They’re simply impractical.”

“Clothing is not impractical, Imogene.”

“I will wear boys’ clothes or I will wear nothing at all. Your choice,” she said, folding her arms.

Her mother stared. “You cannot blackmail me.”

“I don’t know. I think that if you tried to make me wear girls’ clothes again, I might have to strip them all off in public at the most inopportune of moments,” she said. “And I might just wander the estate grounds entirely naked. Always.”

They stared at each other in silence for long moments.

If Mummy thought Imogene had any scrap of shame or was capable of feeling embarrassment, then she was dead wrong.

“Fine,” Mummy snapped. “We’re going shopping.”

* * *

 

He is eleven at the very beginning stages of puberty when he figures it out.

He would have figured it out far sooner, of course, but such things were seldom discussed in 1990. He didn’t even know it was a possibility until he heard about a “woman who was really a man” on the news.

He had known for a while that he wished he was a boy. But it wasn’t until then that it occurred to him it was possible to do something about it, to simply be a boy.

The first thing he does is, naturally, throw himself into research, which quietly makes him panic in the privacy of his own mind.

Then he goes to Mycroft.

“You should come out,” he said.

Mycroft choked on his tea, going red in the face. “I—How— _Keep your voice down!”_

“Why?” he asked.

“Because clearly I have no intention of coming out, Imogene!” he hissed. His little brother glared at him.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s a bloody terrible idea.”

“But why?”

Mycroft sat in his desk chair and stared at his brother pensively. “In our society, it is considered unacceptable to experience attraction to one’s own sex. As such, there are certain repercussions that can be expected for making such inclinations known. I intend to have a thriving political career, and thus cannot afford to be outed as bisexual. Ever.”

“Bisexual?”

“You know your Latin roots, Imogene. You can deduce the meaning easily enough.”

He nodded. “I still think you should consider it. Politics are boring and your coming out would make things so much easier, Mycroft.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Oh, it would, would it?”

“Of course. Keeping a massive secret like that makes you vulnerable. You could very easily be blackmailed, you know.”

“How altruistic of you,” he said dryly. His brother tried to refrain from tensing but didn’t quite manage. Mycroft’s eyes swept over him, examining, deducing.

“’It would make things easier’,” he repeated. “You only want me to come out so that you can do so as well. You want everyone to make a big fuss and get it out of their system. You’ll know what to expect then, and your own announcement won’t seem so bad. Not as shocking, when Mummy and Daddy have already just been through it.”

He glared. He’d deny it, but Mycroft could always tell when he was lying. There was little point in it.

“Imogene, you are selfish and an opportunist,” he said. “You’d do well in politics.”

* * *

 

The school uniform he’s required to wear has a skirt.

He is twelve when one day it’s all too much and his breath starts coming fast and his head feels like it’s exploding and he runs into the girls’ bathroom (hates it hates it hates it) and locks himself in the farthest stall. Tears leak out of his eyes at random, and he stays there for half an hour until his breath steadies.

He avoids the mirrors on the way out.

The school calls his parents, and he gets in trouble for skipping class.

* * *

 

He cuts all his hair off, badly, without a mirror, using somewhat questionable scissors.

Mummy throws a fit, and he is grounded for two weeks, and he grins while she’s yelling and screaming. Doesn’t hide it well enough, apparently, because then two weeks become a month.

Being ‘grounded’ essentially means no science experiments and no non-school-related books, because there really isn’t much else his parents can take away from him.

He watches as much television as he can stand. He goes to the park and fills half a notebook on observations of social interactions, delineated by gender, until he has established a good number of unspoken norms and signals. He waits until his parents are asleep every night and then sneaks out new books and reads until the early morning. He teaches himself how to pick both locks and pockets.

All in all, it’s a very productive month. Five experiments were time-sensitive and completely ruined, but he considers them an acceptable loss.

Mummy takes him to the hair salon and has them fix up his hair as best they can, which isn’t much—he cut it almost to the scalp. It’ll be forever before it grows back. And he fully intends to just cut it again. He’ll never let it be that long again, ever.

* * *

 

There is to be a minor gala celebrating Uncle Cuthbert’s recent knighthood.

“I’m not going. You can’t make me.”

Mycroft stared at him, considering. “You’ve never liked these functions. I admit they’re dull, but nevertheless, it is my job to ensure you attend, and behave yourself while there.”

“You can’t bribe me again like you did for the New Year’s ball. I already have everything I want,” he said. “I’m not going.”

“Yes you are, I just haven’t found the right leverage yet.”

“And you never will.”

“We’ll see,” he said. Then he launched into deductions. “You always hate family gatherings, as well as state functions. The more formal an event, the more you despise it. Obvious correlation. There has to be some reason.”

He rolled his eyes. “Correlation does not equal causation, Mycroft. That’s bad science.”

“And now you’re deflecting, which proves that I’m right. The formality of the event is the primary factor,” he said.

His little brother seethed, and kept his mouth firmly clamped closed.

“So what is it? The increased social rules? Higher expectations, standards of behavior?” he asked. “No. No, you love trying on personalities just to see if you can convince people of them. If anything, the opportunity to test your charm or manipulation skills should be an attraction. It must be something else.”

“It doesn’t _matter,_ Mycroft. And you admitted yourself how horrible those events are. I hardly need additional reasons, and regardless, I’m not going. Nothing you can say or do can change my mind.”

“What if you didn’t have to wear a dress?” he asked. “What if I took you to my tailor and had a suit made for you?”

He paused, eyes widening. Mycroft smiled slowly.

“Let’s not tell Mummy. It’ll be a surprise.”

* * *

 

He is fully aware that his entire family has quietly decided he is a lesbian without anyone ever talking about it or saying anything outright.

But when he is fourteen, he kisses another boy for the first time, and the next time Mycroft comes home, he deduces it over the dinner table, saying it as he realizes it.

The youngest Holmes blushes furiously.

Their father deflates in relief and Mummy is ecstatic and gushing happily, asking a billion questions, but Mycroft just looks at him like a bug under a microscope, making him feel on edge.

He doesn’t look at Mycroft throughout the rest of dinner.

* * *

 

He has a little lab in the attic, set aside just for him, equipped with some of Mummy’s old chemistry equipment and some tools bought brand-new.

Mycroft comes up to it the next day, and he stalwartly ignores him and continues his work. He’s trying to identify dust based on what animal tissue it came from. It’s not going well.

“Have you picked out a name yet?” Mycroft asked suddenly, and he barely refrains from jumping.

“No,” he said, not looking up.

“They’ll take it better if you choose a traditional one. Something from the family.”

“I know.”

“You could have told me.”

“You never told me about you. I had to figure that out on my own.” He shrugged. “Not my fault you’re so incredibly slow.”

“…You’ve been binding,” he said. “You don’t own an actual binder though—no way of purchasing one—so you’ve been using bandages instead.”

He said nothing.

“That’s incredibly dangerous, Im…” he started. “You could do permanent damage to yourself.”

He rolled his eyes. “Yes, it would be such an absolute shame if something were to happen to my breasts.”

“I was talking about your ribs and lungs, genius. No matter what, you actually need those.”

He glared.

“Pick out a name. Three binders will be delivered to your boarding school within the week, on the condition that you promise never to misuse bandages like that again. I expect you to keep up correspondence with me. Is that understood?”

“Yes,” he bit out, feeling manipulated.

* * *

 

He goes through the family tree, mining for names.

Siger. William. Bartholomew. William. William. Mortimer. Scott. Cedrick. Theodore. Sherlock. Randolph. Adelbert. Zechariah.

Sherlock.

Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock _Sherlock._

It feels right. It’s unusual, memorable, like Mycroft’s name but better, and no one can say it isn’t traditional.

Sherlock Holmes. Nice ring to it.

And then he gets impulsive and decides that instead of choosing one name, he’s going to choose three. His parents will _love_ that.

He chooses William, because he practically has to. Sherlock William Holmes. No. Sounds bad. William Sherlock Holmes. Yes. Much better.

He goes farther back in the genealogy because the rest of the list so far is frankly appalling.

Delwyn. Glenalvon. William. Alasaph. Oren. Willaby. Ruliff. Coonrod. Larnard. Jove.

He goes back to the more modern section of the list.

He debates on Siger, but decides that’s laying it on too thick, and also he doesn’t like his dad _that_ much. So then it’s between Mortimer and Scott, but he really only considers Mortimer because of the association with death but even for him, that’s a bit of a mouthful.

And so William Sherlock Scott Holmes he becomes.

He writes his letter to Mycroft in French and then creates a simple encryption key for it, turns the whole thing into one massively long string of numbers across five pages, and then sends that.

Shortly thereafter, he receives a care package of binders with a note enclosed, addressed ‘Dear Sherlock.’

Of course, he doesn’t realize that at first, because it’s in Morse code that translates into Gaelic.

He spends the rest of the week walking on air.


	2. C is for Coming Out

He goes home for Christmas and answers to ‘Imogene’ and ‘she’ and doesn’t say a word. He’s been wearing boys’ clothes for a while now, though, so at least there’s that.

He leaves his binders back at school where his parents can’t find them.

He’ll be fine. He’ll be fine. He has to be.

But he’s fourteen now and wearing boys’ clothes and his hair cut so short and people are starting to talk. Father is distressed and asks about whether he’s interested in any boys (no) or if he wants to start wearing makeup, he’s old enough now (double no).

Mummy takes him shopping for makeup anyway, and Sherlock is forced to wear it.

He can’t stop rubbing at his itchy eyes and it gets smeared everywhere and Mummy sighs and wipes it off, saying he looks like a raccoon now.

Sherlock does not throw all the makeup away. No. Mummy would be horribly upset by that. He starts experimenting on it.

Two weeks pass and he is made to wear makeup three more times, then break ends and he goes back to school.

He hates school and he really does love his parents, so he can’t justify why he feels so relieved.

* * *

 

He gets his first period and he cries, feeling absolutely disgusting and repulsive and dirty and shameful.

* * *

 

“I want testosterone.”

“No,” Mycroft said.

“Why not?” Sherlock snapped.

“You’re a child, Sherlock. You shouldn’t do anything so drastic quite yet.”

“I’m not uncertain, Mycroft. This isn’t a phase.”

“Oh, really? How long have you felt this way?”

“Since always.”

“Really? I seem to recall a distinctive change in the way you comported yourself around age eleven.”

“That was when I realized what I wanted and set about making it happen. I assure you I felt this way beforehand and simply failed to identify it.”

Mycroft stared at him. “I believe that you believe that,” he said. “I also believe that you are young and easily mistaken. It’s one thing to play dress-up—”

“I’m not _playing dress-up!”_

“—but I will not allow you to make permanent changes to your body at this juncture. You don’t even seem serious—”

“I am serious!”

“And I am concerned that this is a passing fancy,” he said. “You may feel this way quite strongly now, but not so in five years. You resenting the associations of your womanhood—”

_“Don’t call me a woman!”_

Mycroft folded his arms, the very picture of disappointment. “You are acting childishly,” he said. “We can revisit this discussion after you are eighteen.”

* * *

 

Sherlock decides to prove he’s serious the next summer break, on a weekend when Mycroft is visiting.

Some small part of him protests that he shouldn’t have to do this, that he doesn’t need to prove anything to Mycroft or anyone else, that he doesn’t owe them explanations, that he should have the freedom to do this according to his own timeline.

Another, larger part of himself really wants testosterone and will play along with whatever mind games he has to to get it.

He waits until dinner is almost over and the table has fallen into relaxed silence on the second night of break.

“Mummy, Father,” he says. He pointedly does not look at Mycroft. “I have an announcement to make.”

Mummy quirks an eyebrow, puzzled, but Father looks wary and ashen as he sets his fork down.

“What is it, darling?” Mummy asked. “Are you in trouble? Did something happen?”

“No, nothing of the sort.” He waved a hand dismissively. “I merely want to make you aware of something I should have disclosed long ago.”

“What is it?” Father asked, voice low with dread.

“I am transgender. I am a boy and now go by the name of Sherlock.”

The table was silent.

For the first time that evening, Sherlock looked to his brother, and found Mycroft raising an eyebrow at him, a pinched look on his face.

“What makes you think that?” Father asked gruffly. “Why—Where did you even get that idea?”

“…From myself? No one else convinced me of this, Father, it is simply the way I am.”

“Imogene,” Mummy chastised. “You can’t be serious.”

He frowned. “I am quite serious, actually, have never been more serious in my life.”

His father shook his head. “No. No! You want to, what? Go by a boy’s name now? Start to wearing trousers to school? Have us tell everyone that we have two sons now?”

“Yes.”

“No!”

“Why?”

“Because it’s ridiculous, Imogene, that’s why! It was bad enough when we thought you were some dyke, but this?!”

“Siger…” Mummy started.

“No!” He stood abruptly. “No, I will not tolerate this in my household. Imogene, you are a girl, you have always been a girl, and you always will be a girl. No one will ever take you seriously about this.”

Sherlock stood up just as violently, quivering with rage. “As much as you would like to, _Father,_ you do not speak for the world. You do not even speak for this household. I am a boy whether you like it or not. There is nothing you can do to change that.”

Sherlock whirled on his heel and stormed out of the dining room, practically sprinting up to his attic laboratory. The tears started falling before he even reached it.

He stood beyond the trapdoor and looked around the cluttered, dusty room. He screamed deep in his throat and swiped a weeks-long experiment off a table, completely ruining it and making a mess of the place. He took his current lab notebook and chucked it at the wall, then flew over to a corner of the attic and huddled down in it, drawing his knees up to his chest and burrowing his head, letting the tears fall freely.

He wasn’t aware of how much time passed but it wasn’t nearly enough before Mycroft let himself up.

“Go. Away.”

“Sherlock…”

“Don’t speak to me!”

“Sherlock, I came here to apologize,” he said. “I realize that you may have felt… pressured into taking this action before you were ready. And I am aware that I am the reason for that. But you have to understand, I cannot simply supply you with testosterone under the table. You are a minor, Sherlock, and I am not your legal guardian.”

“I don’t wanna talk about this right now.”

He nodded. “Very well. I shall respect your wishes,” he said. “I will attempt to make Father see reason. Mummy already supports you and is merely afraid of the repercussions of saying so openly. Should you wish to talk to me—”

“And you?” he asked. “Where do you stand, Mycroft? Are you humoring me through a passing phase or do you trust my judgement about my own self? Have I proven myself serious enough yet?”

Mycroft looked pained. “You don’t need to prove yourself to me, Sherlock.”

He looked up sharply. “Don’t I?”

“Indeed not, brother mine.”

And Sherlock hated himself for, but a thrill ran through him at the words.

_Brother mine._

“You—” He swallowed. “You believe me?”

Mycroft sighed and came further into the attic. He sat down primly across from Sherlock, visibly displeased by the thick dust around him. “I do,” he said. “I am sorry that I ever doubted you. I see now that I have treated you unfairly and caused you distress. I was well aware of my own gender and sexual orientation by your age. I should have granted you the same self-awareness and maturity.”

Sherlock fidgeted, picking at his fingernails. “I’m fifteen. Just because I’m seven years younger than you doesn’t mean I’m a baby.”

“I know.”

“You said I didn’t have to prove myself to you, but I did, Mycroft. I did.”

“I am sorry.”

“You should be,” he said, not looking up.

Mycroft shifted, moving around to be beside Sherlock and wrapping a protective arm around his shoulders. Sherlock leaned into the embrace, allowing himself to be held like he hadn’t in years.

He cried until it was dark out and Mycroft held him until he fell asleep.

* * *

 

The rest of the summer was hell and fraught with tension. Family dinners were filled with icy silences and clipped remarks. Sherlock repeatedly deleted his deadname and thus was genuinely incapable of responding to it. His parents still used it nonetheless, and every time he would deduce what it was (eventually) and delete it again.

One time he deleted the fact that he was trans entirely. It did not go well and resulted in a horrible confrontation at a urinal and Sherlock being permanently banned from that particular restaurant. His mother pursed her lips and didn’t speak to him the rest of the day.

He told literally everyone he encountered (save strangers) that he was a boy now and to address him as such. This was met with varying levels of acceptance, and ended with his parents keeping him away from their friends and relatives for that summer, interactions tapering off until Sherlock was a de facto shut-in, a prisoner in his own home.

He understood the phrase a gilded cage now. The Holmes manor was beautiful, expansive, opulent in the extreme. His own personal hell that he wasn’t allowed to leave.

He spent almost all of his time up in the attic.

Mycroft came to visit often, moreso than he had in any year past, running himself ragged between the manor and his oh-so-important internship assignment with MI6.

Not that Sherlock was supposed to know he worked for MI6. And he especially wasn’t supposed to talk about it openly, for God’s sake, Sherlock, haven’t you ever heard of discretion?

In the end, Mycroft also benefitted from Sherlock being cut off from society. Something which Sherlock was quick to point out accusingly, and resulted in several arguments between the two brothers.

The summer was mild, the weather was pleasant, but Sherlock felt like there was fire shut up in his bones.

Then it ended and it was time to go back to school.

And Sherlock was registered for classes as Imogene Winnifred Holmes, female, assigned to the girls’ dorms and expected to wear girls’ uniforms.

* * *

 

“Mycroft.”

“There is nothing I can do about it.”

“Yes, there is.”

“Nothing legal, then.”

“Do it anyway.”

“Me losing my job benefits no one, Sherlock. I will be able to provide more extensive legal assistance in the future, just not right now. Can’t you muddle through just a few more years?”

“It’s hell, Mycroft.”

“The closet isn’t that bad.”

“You don’t understand.”

“I understand perfectly well, brother mine.”

“No, you don’t. It’s different. It’s so different. You just can’t date other men openly; I feel like absolute shite every second of the day. They want me to wear a skirt, Mycroft. A _skirt.”_

“First of all, you are being extremely rude and condescending in your minimization of my issues—”

“Don’t care.”

“—And second of all, you’ve already been pretending for fifteen years, what really is three more? Just until you graduate secondary school, Sherlock. You can register for university as a male with none the wiser.”

“That doesn’t help me _now.”_

“Patience is a virtue.”

He scoffed. “That’s easy for you to say.”

Mycroft slammed his book shut suddenly. “No, it isn’t!” he snapped. “Do you think my life is sunshine and daisies, Sherlock? You think because—in your eyes—my situation is not _as bad,_ means it’s not bad at all? Is this some sort of fucked-up competition to you?”

Sherlock flinched. He had never heard his brother curse. Never.

“Get over yourself. There’s absolutely nothing I can do to help you at this juncture. I can’t get you testosterone, I can’t change your birth certificate, I can’t tell your school you’re a boy now. What I can do is get you binders and write you letters. I have been working myself _to the bone_ trying to spend as much time here as possible, so that this summer would be a little bit better for you. Unfortunately, though, I cannot change society as a whole, and our father will not listen to me. _I am not God,_ Sherlock. I am doing what I can, and that’s it. I’m sorry if that’s not enough for you.”

He snapped to his feet and stormed out of the library. He left the book behind.


	3. D is for Danger Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for bullshit and an extra-bullshitty conversation, plus extreme stupidity

He goes back to school and he lasts one week and one day.

He buys trousers and gets his hair cut again and shows up the next day and calmly requests his teacher call him Sherlock now.

Mr. Loewenstein arches an eyebrow bemusedly. “Oh?”

“Yes. And I would appreciate it if you addressed me with male pronouns as well.”

“Oh,” he says again, but his tone is different this time and his face is dark.

Sherlock gives a sharp-edged smile and goes back to his seat.

Mr. Loewenstein doesn’t address him once that day. Doesn’t even look him in the eye.

* * *

He repeats the procedure with every teacher in every class. By lunchtime, the news has made the gossip rounds throughout the school.

He wasn’t that surprised, really, when he got called into the headmaster’s office.

Mrs. Ducal stared down at him. “Your roommate has filed a complaint.”

“Has she?”

“Yes. She says you’re telling everyone you’re a boy now. That you’re transgender.”

Sherlock hummed.

“Several teachers have come to me with the same concerns.”

“What concerns?”

That gave her pause. “That you think you’re transgender. Imogene, we will have to call your parents.”

It takes a second.

He rolls his eyes. “Very well then. Go ahead. Call them.”

Mrs. Ducal frowns and picks up the phone.

Sherlock hears his mother’s voice and he grins.

Ten minutes later, he has been assigned a single dorm and instructed to use the handicapped bathroom. It sucks, and it’s unfair, and they should just treat him like any other boy, but at least they aren’t forcing him to pretend to be a girl anymore.

In spite of the mind-numbing stupidity surrounding the entire incident, he finds himself feeling lighter afterwards.

* * *

His dorm gets vandalized six times. He eats alone at lunch every day. Students trip and shove him in the halls. He sits at the edge of all his classrooms, the other students giving him a wide berth. He speaks to no one, and no one speaks to him.

Once, he goes eight days without saying a word, and when he does speak again, his voice is cracked and broken with disuse. Mycroft shows up, radiating disapproval and concern.

“What do you want?” Sherlock snipes.

“You have gotten yourself into quite a predicament here.”

“No, I haven’t. And my life is none of your business.”

“I believe it is, Sherlock. You are my little brother, after all.”

“So?”

“So, you have brought needless suffering upon yourself.”

“Just because you love the closet doesn’t mean that everyone is a coward.”

“Discretion is not cowardice.”

“You and your ‘discretion.’”

“I’m merely cautious, Sherlock. I have a reputation to uphold, power to maintain. I require respect.”

Sherlock sat up, leaning forward. “Are you saying I am unrespectable?”

“No,” he said dryly.

“You just said that you remain in the closet in order to be respected, implying that coming out causes an unavoidable loss of said respect.”

“That is not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

“I mean that the LGBT community has a certain… reputation—”

Sherlock started clapping slowly.

“—that would be disadvantageous for me to be associated with.”

“You’re a coward.”

 _“This is not about you!”_ he said. “Sherlock. I realize your own situation was not ideal, but coming out is a deeply personal action and not to be undertaken lightly. Your attempts to pressure or guilt me into doing so prematurely are not appreciated. I apologize for the situation I forced on you. However, I, personally, will not be coming out now or anytime in the near future.”

“Will you ever?”

“Perhaps not,” he said. “I can effect large-scale societal change from my position, but not if I get ousted from it due to bigotry.”

“There is such a thing as grass-roots change as well. And you are not exactly a legislator. What _change_ are you talking about?”

“Sherlock—”

“You are perpetuating heteronormativ—”

“I am not going to deba—”

“—and furthermore—”

“—not the point—”

“—cisgender privilege and the assumption—”

“—oversimplification of complex, _personal_ matters—”

“—positive, beneficial normalization—”

“What you are proposing would take—”

“—you are just afra—”

“No!” he shouted.

“Why not?!” Sherlock shouted back.

“Not everyone is you, Sherlock!” he said. “The situation is different! I will not come out and ruin my familial relationships just so that you don’t seem as bad! And don’t pretend that isn’t the real reason you want me to!”

Sherlock went cold and still.

“You talk about my real reason,” he said. “And you pretend yours is so selflessly altruistic. In reality, you simply want Father’s approval. ‘Ruin your familial relationships’?” He shook his head. “Well, congratulations, Mycroft. You’ve ruined this one.”

“Sherlock—”

“No. I don’t wanna talk to you. Get out.”

“You’re being unrea—”

“Get out!”

* * *

The next three years drag on agonizingly slowly. Then finally, _finally,_ he graduates.

He has the summer off and he embarrasses his parents by being openly, proudly trans and then he goes to university, under a new legal name and in a boys’ dorm with a roommate and permission to use the regular boys’ bathroom.

His roommate’s name is Victor Trevor.

Sherlock falls hard.

* * *

It’s hard.

He manages to hide his body under the guise of modesty, heavily implying that he has severe self-esteem issues. It’s not that far from the truth. He doesn’t hate his body, as he so often reminds himself. On the contrary. His body is of no consequence. It simply doesn’t matter. It’s just transport, and he would prefer if it didn’t exist at all.

What’s significantly harder to hide, however, is his menstrual cycle.

He reads that high-dose hormone replacement therapy can cause menstruation to cease and he makes a doctor’s appointment.

He’s denied entirely and recommended a therapist. He rips up the business card in front of the doctor and storms out.

He gets special permission to use the handicapped bathroom when on his period and does strategic acrobatics to ensure no one notices him entering and leaving it.

He can’t access his trust fund until he’s twenty-one which is another bloody two bloody years.

He hates it hates it hates it.

He starts skipping dinner. And then breakfast.

He gets thin, so thin, his already small breasts shrinking further, the fat on his hips paring down. He is 5’10” and can pitch his voice as low as any of his classmates. He is nineteen, and tall, and lanky, and his facial features are frankly strange and he doesn’t let his hair grow more than an inch long.

He looks horrible and just barely male.

He doesn’t eat and he doesn’t eat and he doesn’t eat.

He still hates everything with a burning passion, and most especially his transport.

He’s been in university for seven months when he is introduced to both Sebastian Wilkes and a seven percent cocaine solution.

* * *

Victor kisses him.

Victor kisses him and Sherlock’s brain short-circuits.

He kisses back and moans into his mouth and Victor chuckles, cupping his jaw and pulling him down closer, an arm snaking around his waist.

He doesn’t know what’s happening but five minutes later he is flat on Victor’s bed and a hand gets shoved down his trousers and—

“What the fuck?”

“Um,” he said. “I, uh. I wasn’t expecting—”

“Where the hell is your dick?”

“I don’t have one.”

“What?” Victor reels back, appalled. “What? Why?”

“Because I… wasn’t born with one,” he said. “I’m transgender.”

Victor’s face morphs into something dark and disgusted. “You’re a tranny. Oh my God, you’re a fucking tranny! You lied to me!”

“No I didn’t,” he bristled. “I would have told, I just didn’t expect it to become relevant so soon. Frankly, I didn’t realize you were interested—”

“Oh my God!” he shouted. “You’re fucking disgusting! Get out get out _get out!”_

He yanked Sherlock up by the arm and shoved him bodily out of the dorm room, slamming it shut behind him.

A few kids passing in the hall snickered at him—breathless, rumpled, trousers half undone. His face burned cherry red and he hurriedly righted himself.

He strode out of the dormitory as fast as he could.

* * *

He spent the night walking around the campus, too anxious to sit still, until eventually he got cold and went into a library to warm up. He didn’t sleep.

He didn’t go back to his dorm room for three days and by the time he did, Victor had applied for new housing.

* * *

He stocks up on more cocaine than he had ever bought and shoots up well past his limit.

He wakes up in the hospital with no recollection of anything, and no clue what day it is.

His whole family is there, including Grandmeré.

He slips back under into unconsciousness.

* * *

His family cuts him off and revises the stipulations of his trust fund. He can’t access it until he’s five years sober.

They try to force into rehab, but he refuses. He can detox perfectly well on his own, thank you very much. It’s just transport. It can be ignored.

It’s hell and he doesn’t do it and he relapses almost immediately.

Four months later and he’s living on the streets.

* * *

There are dealers out there are fine with it if you can’t pay with cash. They’ll accept a blowjob just as readily.

It’s a fairly slippery slope from there.

And Sherlock isn’t quite a prostitute, per se, not by his definitions, but the police don’t really listen when he tries to explain that

He should have known the sergeant—Dimmock, apparently—was an undercover cop and not a legitimate drug dealer. He had missed the signs, had dismissed the man’s obvious unease as nerves over getting caught. God. He should have seen.

And maybe if he wasn’t twitchy and irritable in the beginning stages of detox, he would have.

He groans and turns over on the cot in his cell.

They had put him in the drunk tank. With other men.

He’s so exhausted that he almost lets himself fall asleep there, before a spike of anxiety surges through him and tells him not to let his guard down even for a second. He stays awake, hypervigilant and taut as a wire, while they finish processing him.

No one posts bail and he ends up spending a stint in court-mandated rehab. Detox is hell and his body is in agony.

He gets out. He sits on a sidewalk. He stays there, motionless, for five hours.

He goes to the nearest payphone and he calls his brother.

“Mycroft, I need a favor.”

“I believe you have run out of favors.”

“An exchange, then. You set the terms.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line, clearly surprised. “Very well,” he said. “What do you need?”

“Testosterone. And a place to stay.”

“And I assume you’re intelligent enough to know what I will ask in return, or have the drugs rotted your brain beyond repair?”

He rolled his eyes and scoffed.

“Very well then,” Mycroft said. “I have several doctors whose best interests are cooperating according to my best interests.”

“’Blackmail’ is a much shorter word, Mycroft.”

“—And so you should know that if you break the arrangement at any point, your prescriptions will be immediately voided.”

“Obviously. I do know your methods, brother mine.”

“Housing will take a bit of time,” he continued. “A shelter is not preferred, obviously. Hardly a suitable nor healthy environment, especially for one in recovery. A halfway house—”

“No.”

“—is a logical—”

“No.”

He sighed. “Sherlock,” he said. “I cannot simply wave my hand and produce you an apartment. Unless you would be willing to stay in my residence for a spell?”

He snorted.

“I thought as much. These things take time, Sherlock—”

“I’ve got it.”

“Oh? And where will you stay in the interim?”

“The streets are perfectly acceptable.”

“You’ll relapse.”

“You don’t know that for sure.”

“Sherlock, if you’re truly serious about any of this, then you have three choices: a halfway house, my townhouse, or our parents’ estate. Your pick.”

Sherlock glared at the receiver. “Fine,” he bit out. “I’ll be there in an hour.”

“See that you are.”

The line disconnected, and just for that, Sherlock decided to be two hours late.


	4. E is for Expert

Mycroft’s housekeeper greets Sherlock at the door and shows him into the guest rooms. Fresh clothing has been laid out on the bed, new and nicer than anything Sherlock has worn in the past year.

He closes his eyes briefly.

He takes a shower that lasts over an hour, scrubbing off months of grime and luxuriating in the feel of hot water. His hair has grown out a bit, and when it dries out, curled and fluffy, it looks… not bad. Not too feminine. He looks good with slightly longer hair.

It’s not so long as to be inherently feminine. It looks… nice on him. He might just keep it. There is no need to keep his hair shorn close to the scalp, really. Not all men have hair that short. It’s not a requirement, and it just makes him look ugly.

Plus, maybe with testosterone…

He gets dressed and goes downstairs to greet Mycroft. The older man is sitting in his private study, a tray of small foods sitting next to an empty armchair. Sherlock takes the seat hesitantly, still on edge, and picks at the food on the tray. His stomach growls embarrassingly loud.

Mycroft arranged some papers on his desk. “In exchange for my assistance, you will submit to weekly drug tests.”

Sherlock nodded, not meeting his eyes. Mycroft’s eyebrows rose high on his forehead.

He cleared his throat. “I will cover your rent for the first three months, then only half of it for the three after that. Within six months, you will be expected to handle your own expenses. You will have to get a job of some sort.”

Sherlock said nothing.

“No surgery of any sort for at least a year. And I will not pay for that. You should see how you adapt to the hormone therapy on its own first. Give your body a chance to adapt, and your mind to get used to it.”

No response.

Mycroft was growing increasingly worried.

“You are required to come home to our parents’ manor for Christmas and their birthdays as well, and to behave yourself while there.”

Silence.

Mycroft’s panic spiked. “You won’t be required to… pretend, of course. I will not force a fake gender on you.”

He said nothing.

“Though I suspect you would let me if I demanded it,” he said, finally snapping. “It pains me to see you this way, Sherlock. I clearly underestimated the toll this whole ordeal has taken on you. I want you to know you are free to stay here for as long as you like, and to return at any time. No strings attached.”

Sherlock nodded meekly. Something in Mycroft’s chest tightened dangerously.

* * *

It took Mycroft one week to find suitable housing for Sherlock but his little brother stayed with him for two months before moving in.

The flat was small, modest, easy enough to maintain and afford once Sherlock was on his own. It was clean and in a good neighborhood and the landlady was largely absent and couldn’t care less what Sherlock did in there.

He didn’t start conducting experiments again until he was one month settled in.

Sherlock was quiet. He was well-behaved.

Mycroft worried.

* * *

He didn’t find a job in time. He had no work history and a criminal record, along with almost no marketable skills. No one wanted to hire him.

It wasn’t for lack of trying. He applied for anything and everything that would pay enough to meet his costs of living, no matter how boring the job seemed.

The three-month deadline came and went and both brothers pretended not to notice. Sherlock had no income, and Mycroft still paid 100% of his rent.

At one point Sherlock decided that he would have no choice but to take on multiple low-paying jobs and broke down and applied at fast-food restaurants.

He never heard back and Mycroft visited in person the next day, expressing concern and disapproval, offering to talk to their parents about his access to his trust fund.

Sherlock refused.

Horrible as it was, Mycroft was relieved. It was the first sign of Sherlock’s usual pride and arrogance that he had seen since scooping him off the street in front of a rehab facility.

* * *

“Have you considered entrepreneurship?”

Sherlock hummed. “At what?”

“Detection. You would make a remarkable private investigator.”

“Cheating spouses and missing wedding rings?”

“Sherlock, you have no job. I believe the phrase is ‘beggars can’t be choosers.’”

“That’s an idea. Maybe I’ll be a beggar.”

“I thought you already tried that,” Mycroft said mildly.

“If beggars can’t be choosers, then why am I not working in fast food? Hm? I thought that industry had no standards.”

“Yes. Unfortunately, I do.”

“I see. It reflects poorly on you that your little brother is flinging burgers for a living while you reside in a mansion. Makes you seem like one of _those_ politicians.”

“I could arrange a job for you, if you like.”

“I don’t want any more charity, than you’ve already given me, Mycroft.”

“Yes, but I suspect you need it. I admit, I did not expect it to be this hard for you to acquire a job. You went to the finest schools in the country, and were at the top of every class while there.”

“That means nothing. I’m a junkie dropout who’s been arrested for prostitution before. No one in their right mind would hire me. Except, you know, as a prostitute.”

Mycroft’s lips curled in distaste. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

* * *

In the end, he suspected Mycroft did interfere after all.

Sherlock meets Gregory Lestrade on a case involving hypothermia in a sauna. He solves it, the then-sergeant gets all the credit, and paperwork is miraculously produced to make Sherlock an official consultant for New Scotland Yard.

He won’t be paid, though. But it’s interesting enough work to make taking private cases tolerable, and he does get paid for those.

After three months of employment, Mycroft stops paying half the rent and Sherlock manages. Three months after that, he stops helping altogether and Sherlock is scraping by, all on his own.

He feels like he’s flying.

He’s twenty-two and he hasn’t felt this high since had first figured things out and made a name for himself. He feels like he’s becoming who he is meant to be.

Things are good.

Things are great.

People treat him like a man and he’s starting to genuinely believe he looks like one. He’s on fairly low-dose testosterone. It changes his body’s general appearance and allows him to grow facial hair, but doesn’t stop menstruation. Which is fine. Inconvenient and uncomfortable and dysphoria-inducing, but fine.

So much better than nothing.

And maybe Sherlock has low standards and his parents still call him “their daughter, Imogene” but he thinks he could be fine with this.

He thinks he could be okay.

* * *

Ten years of ‘fine’ and ‘okay’ go by and Sherlock really, truly loves his life. This is better than he had ever hoped for. It’s brilliant. He has cases and he has respect and he will be twelve years sober this coming June.

It’s brilliant.

Then he meets John Watson.

At first he’s a mild curiosity at best: doctor, military, captain, odd juxtaposition, could be interesting.

Then he shoots a cabbie to protect Sherlock and takes his breath away.

Sherlock’s flying suddenly feels a lot more like falling and there’s nothing he can do about it. There’s nothing he wants to do about it.

He invites John out to Chinese and tries desperately to keep the ridiculous grin off his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the shorter chapter! I thought that was a good stopping point though


End file.
